by Sidney Bell
Church should’ve cracked the fucker open when he had the chance.
There was pain then.
* * *
It was the crash of shattering glass that called everything back into focus. The brother currently scrolling through Church’s cell phone jumped about a mile, and snapped, “What’s the point of that?”
There was a new voice. Rough, low, almost hoarse. Speaking Russian.
Vasily said something in response, also in Russian. The new voice said something back.
The brothers argued for a minute, getting louder and louder. Matvey must’ve arrived at some point, because his familiar voice was one of those raised in a shout. All Church could do was try to focus long enough to find a weapon—a tricky thing to do with one eye swollen closed and shitty depth perception.
Turned out he didn’t need one.
The new person said one more thing in that hoarse, stitched-together voice, but this time Church recognized one of the words.
Mama.
Vasily cursed and kicked one of the display cases, breaking the glass. Church flinched from the noise and the spray, making his ribs bark in agony. By the time he could breathe, a big shadow loomed over him. Church jerked back, wrenching himself and giving a low cry before he could help it, and Matvey said quickly, “No, no, Church, it’s me. It’s me. They’re gone, all of them. I’m not gonna hurt you, okay?”
Church swallowed a little bit of blood from his torn lip. “Okay.”
“Can you sit up?”
“No problem.”
Yeah, that was a lie, which they found out together when Matvey hauled him to his ass and Church shrieked like a little kid. But somehow they got him propped up against the back wall with his legs straight out in front of him, and Matvey began dabbing at Church’s face with some damp paper towels.
Eventually, when it was obvious Church wouldn’t die without a hospital, Matvey gave him a ride to Miller’s. He put the car in Park in front of the town house and they sat in the frigid cold listening to the engine tick. Matvey didn’t meet Church’s gaze from the driver’s seat.
“I’d let you leave if I could,” he said, so low that Church almost couldn’t hear him.
“I know.”
“I got your cell phone back for you.” He set it gingerly on Church’s thigh. “Take the rest of the week off, okay? Not just tomorrow and Christmas. Paid. I’ll, um, write you a note for your parole lady if you need me to.”
“Okay, thanks.” He coughed into a napkin, which made his belly ache like a bastard.
“Church—”
“It’s okay.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.” Church swallowed. His spit tasted like pennies. “Me too.”
* * *
Miller was snoring on the couch while an old movie played on the muted television, and Church paused in the doorway to watch him.
There was no way he could hide this. The eventual bruises on his torso would be easy to conceal if his shirt weren’t torn, but his right eye had swollen almost closed, his jaw was probably purple by now and his bottom lip had split.
His knuckles were shredded, but he liked that part.
Miller was going to have a meltdown. One the size a nuclear power plant might make. That meltdown would only get bigger when he realized Church didn’t have any intention of going to the hospital or calling the cops. Church would do a lot to make Miller feel better, but in this instance, Church couldn’t afford to bend.
If he let Miller take him to the hospital, the doctors would take one look at him and call the cops themselves. The cops would ask questions that Church couldn’t answer, and once they got suspicious about the fact that he was keeping shit from them, they’d definitely notify Chelsey, which was a complication he didn’t need.
Keeping Miller from forcing the issue would have to be priority one. That meant Church needed to seem pissed-off and embarrassed that he got his ass kicked, but not too badly hurt.
It wasn’t that far from the truth, actually. Except for the not-too-badly-hurt thing.
His whole body fucking ached. He wanted to sleep for a week. Actually, screw that. He wanted to sleep in Miller’s bed, in Miller’s arms, listening to Miller’s soft snores, for the rest of his life.
Instead, he fished around on the counter until he found Miller’s keys, including the one to the rental car. He shoved them in his pocket and took a deep breath. Pissed-off embarrassment coming up.
He shut the door loudly, and Miller jerked awake, the fog of sleep passing fast once he saw Church. He was beside him in an instant.
“Hospital,” he said, hands flailing through the air because he couldn’t seem to decide where it was safe to touch Church without hurting him. He started shoving aside papers on the counter, looking for his keys. “C’mon, do you need help walking, hospital, let’s go.”
“I’m okay. No hospital.”
Miller squinted at him. “Did you take my keys?”
“I’m fine.”
“Give ’em, Church.”
“Nope. Fine. Never better.”
“You don’t look fine. Jesus, your eye...”
“It hurts, but I’ll live. Nothing’s broken.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Still breathing and not screaming is strong evidence of not dying,” Church said. “It’s clear cause-and-effect. Like being a televangelist is evidence of money-grubbing and being drunk is evidence of booze. A shower will fix me right up.”
“Please let me take you to the hospital.” Miller’s fingers closed hesitantly around his wrist, and when Church couldn’t find the will to protest, his thumb moved soothingly over his pulse. “I know you’re really mad at me and that I hurt you, so if you don’t want me with you, I can just drive you there and go, but let me take you there. Please.”
For a heartbeat, Church almost caved. He wanted so badly to rest his head on Miller’s shoulder and have this whole day be over.
Instead, he said, “Make you a deal. Let me shower, and then you can look me over. If you still think I’m dying, I’ll go.”
Miller glared at him. “You don’t have to be dying to get treatment! Why can’t we—”
“I don’t have insurance.” Church tossed the excuse out in desperation, then realized it might be true. “Do I? I was covered through the state in Woodbury. Isn’t there a law about this? Why are they teaching kids geometry? They should be teaching insurance stuff—at least we’d use that.”
“I’ll pay! I don’t care, Church, even if it’s thousands, do you get that?”
And something clicked in Church’s brain.
Maybe the offer should’ve made him angry. Church had already been pathetic enough today, and yeah, maybe it was a little emasculating to need more help. But staring into Miller’s face—mouth and eyes tight, cheeks pale, eyebrows knitted—Church mostly felt stupid. Of course Miller would pay a few thousand dollars for Church to see a doctor.
Miller wouldn’t ask Church to repay him, either, like he would anyone else. He’d tell Church to save his money or spend it on a college class or something. Because he’d want Church to be happy and to have what he needed. Because to Miller, Church mattered.
Miller hadn’t been lying to Church this whole time about what things between them meant. He’d been lying to Shelby.
Yeah, Church felt stupid.
He lifted his free hand and cupped Miller’s jaw. Miller instantly fell silent, looking at him with those brown eyes, so soft and worried. Up close, they were reddish-brown with flecks of gold, and they were so pretty. All of Church’s anger went away. In that moment, he wasn’t sure he could ever get angry again.
“No,” he said, quiet and final, and Miller’s expression twisted as he pressed his cheek into Church’s hand. They stood there
like that for a few seconds before Church had to lower his arm. It hurt too much.
“What happened?” Miller asked finally.
“I got mugged.” Church cleared his throat with the tiniest, most delicate cough he could manage, and it still made his ribs feel dislodged.
Miller waited while Church grimaced and caught his breath, then murmured, “How badly do you need me to pretend that I believe you?”
Church closed his eyes. “For a little while, at least, all right?”
Miller nodded once. “You should sit.”
“Gotta shower first. Once I’m down, I’m not getting back up.”
“You need a hand?”
“No. Maybe? Um.”
“How about I sit on the toilet so if you fall, I can drag you out of the tub before you drown?”
Since drowning would really put the cap on a shitty day, Church agreed. That was how he ended up wincing on the bath mat while Miller carefully peeled his clothes off. His shirt was a lost cause—blood and sweat stained, and dabbed with mayo from the packets stored behind the counter that were trampled underfoot during the fight.
The muscle in Miller’s jaw clenched as he took in Church’s torso. Church glanced in the mirror and grimaced. In the unflattering bathroom overhead light, he looked like a car-wreck victim. His face was purple and swollen and gnarly, with spatters of blood scrawled across his cheeks and throat from his busted lip. The marks on his chest and belly were already deepening from splotchy red to vivid purple.
“You might have broken ribs.” Miller reached out like he wanted to touch, but pulled his hand back at the last second. He shook his head. “You should be in a hospital.”
“There’s nothing they can do for busted ribs anyway.”
“They can make sure there isn’t anything that’s going to pierce a lung. And that you don’t have internal bleeding.”
“If it was gonna kill me, it would’ve already.”
“You are a fucking stubborn asshole,” Miller informed him, the words ragged and thick, but his hands were outrageously gentle on Church’s hips as he turned him so he could reach the button on his jeans.
Church sighed. “I know.”
After Miller helped him into the shower and yanked the curtain closed, Church heard the thud of the toilet lid going down so Miller could sit and wait. Maybe it should’ve been weird having him there, knowing Miller could hear him and see his shadow through the shower curtain, but it wasn’t. It made him feel safer.
The beat of the spray was almost painful, but the heat helped. He gasped when he tried to wash his hair, though. He wasn’t gonna be reaching overhead anytime soon.
“What is it?” Miller asked, pouncing on the small noise like a cheetah, already hovering at the edge of the curtain, not quite pulling it back. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Uh, little help? Shampoo?”
“Uh, can I—”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
Miller opened the curtain and reached past Church to grab the bottle, getting water all over Miller, the wall and the floor in the process.
“You might as well get in,” Church said.
“You sure?”
“Just come on.”
So Miller stripped and got in, his solid body making the roomy shower feel downright tiny. Church struggled not to feel vulnerable and pathetic and less attractive than usual in front of him like this. They hadn’t showered together before, which suddenly seemed like a shame because Miller’s skin and lashes looked damn nice when they were wet. Church had honestly never been less in the mood for sex in his life, but he could still appreciate the view.
“Close your eyes,” Miller murmured, his fingers smoothing shampoo along Church’s scalp. It felt amazing. Church let his head drop forward gingerly against Miller’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” Miller whispered. “I didn’t mean it.”
Church nodded. “I know.”
“I was scared. And stupid. It wasn’t true. You matter, Church. You matter so much.”
“I know.” He did. He knew.
“You’re not a convenience.”
“Okay.” Church let out a shuddering breath. “We’re okay.”
They were quiet again until it was time for conditioner. Miller said, “Your hair’s growing out.”
“Yeah. Almost long enough to need brushing.” Church couldn’t help groaning when Miller’s fingers dug into the base of his skull, the strength of his hands encouraging the tense muscles there to unlock.
“Are you going to shave it again?”
“I don’t know. What do you think? You’re the one who has to look at me.”
Miller’s fingers stuttered. “I like it long.”
Church’s eyes stung a little in the spray when he opened them, but it was worth it to see the expression on Miller’s face—soft, deeply tender, hopeful. Church murmured, “Yeah, I should probably grow it out, huh?”
Miller smiled, warm and grateful. “Need help with the rest?”
Humiliating, but yes. Miller helped him dry off and dress in a slow, awkward process that made Church feel helpless, then cleaned up the bathroom while Church wobbled into the living room, bent over like an old man.
When Miller came in, he was carrying several bags of frozen veggies wrapped in dishcloths, the first aid kit, a glass of water and a bottle of ibuprofen. He sat beside Church on the couch and opened the first aid kit.
“This might hurt,” he warned, uncapping the rubbing alcohol.
Understatement.
By the time Miller was done, Church’s face stung like he’d had fire ants chewing on him, but his cuts were clean, he’d swallowed four pain pills, and he was buried in makeshift ice packs. He took his first deep breath in hours as his ribs went fully numb.
Miller sat on the coffee table and watched him carefully, no doubt looking for signs of imminent death, like he thought Church’s liver was gonna spontaneously explode from his body or something.
“Please be okay,” Miller muttered. “I don’t care if you lie to me, just...be okay.”
That hurt worse than Church’s busted-up body. He thought of his mother, refusing to ask for the truth from her husband, refusing to demand more for herself, and he felt sick.
What the hell was he doing?
Church grabbed Miller’s hand and tugged, pulling him onto the sofa beside him. He pressed his face to Miller’s T-shirt, smelling clean detergent and Miller’s soap, and tried to get his shit together. Miller was murmuring that it would be okay, that everything would be all right, but Church knew better.
It wasn’t all right. No part of this was right. As long as he kept lying and hiding and hurting Miller, it would stay that way, too. If he wanted to be different, he had to do things differently. It wasn’t enough to just stop hitting. Being good meant taking his lumps when it was called for. And it started here, right now.
So he started talking.
As the story rushed out, top to bottom, first to last, a part of his brain stood aside and stared in horror, saying, What do you think he’s gonna do when he sees what you are, moron?
But even as the words threatened to choke him, he could feel in his bones that this was the right thing. His mom had told him that once—that if he was ever unsure about which course of action was right, he should probably do the thing he most feared. Living decent was harder, he supposed. That didn’t mean it wasn’t worthwhile.
He was done being weak and afraid. He was done with that path entirely.
When the words finally dribbled to a stop, he wasn’t sure exactly what he’d said beyond the last bit, which was “I thought you’d think I was the same jerk I used to be. I guess I am the same jerk I used to be, if I’m doing shit like this.”
“Jesus, Church.”
“I kn
ow. I’m sorry. I fucked up.”
“No, what I did yesterday is a fuckup, Church. All you did was get a job.” Miller sighed, his breath warm against Church’s cheek. “It makes sense now, all those times you came home upset and didn’t say anything. Thank you for finally telling me.”
Church would’ve frowned if he were sure his eye wouldn’t explode in the process. Miller clearly didn’t understand. That was the only explanation for why Miller’s expression didn’t show anything but patience.
“I lied to you,” Church explained. “A bunch of little lies, all as part of one big lie. A lie that screwed you over. Do you get that?”
“Yes. Well, I’d argue about the screwing-me-over bit. You’re not the one who ruined the truck, after all, and I’m insured, but you’re making a point, so...”
“So be mad.”
Miller was quiet for a long minute. “I am, I guess, but not very. Not enough to hate you, for crying out loud. A couple of days ago I might’ve been angrier, but it makes sense to me today. I, uh, I have some recent experience with lying to people you care about because you’re afraid of how they’ll see you.”
“Oh. Right.”
“You don’t have to protect me from this sort of thing, you know. We aren’t equals if you’re thinking of me as someone you’re responsible for and it’s...well, it’s kind of insulting. It’s not like with fistfights. I know how to take an emotional punch and move through it, and I deserve to know what’s going on. You don’t have to lie, and you sure as hell shouldn’t do it for my own good. That’s not okay.”
Church opened his mouth to apologize again, only to close it because Miller still wasn’t done. “If you can forgive me for what I did, I guess I can forgive you too, huh?”
Church snorted, which hurt, but the pain was nothing to the way his insides melted with relief. “You’re only a little mad? Really? Even though it meant we couldn’t tell the cops who might’ve been doing the vandalism?”
“It’s not like we could’ve told the cops about Vasily anyway. I’m not risking your life over a window and a truck.”
